


Under the Black flag

by Quiet_Constellation



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Romance, Unrequited Love, lots of sword fighting, the yarr jumped, trust me it is a spideychelle/peejay fic, you just have to be patient
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Constellation/pseuds/Quiet_Constellation
Summary: They're all looking for something. Might be money, a lost treasure. A better life. A sense of belonging somewhere, anywhere.Their paths are crossing, their destinies are entwined.--Pirates!AU, with a healthy dose of NettyPot, Petermj, and a lot of sword fighting.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> And here I thought I'd never write another AU well look who's a fool! A few notes before you start to dive into this: this is in no way a historically accurate Pirates!AU. I've mostly been inspired watching Black Sails and Potc so expect some creative liberties!  
> I'd add that this is probably the most plot oriented fic I've written for the Spider-man fandom so... Just be patient and bear with me please???  
> As usual thanks to the hype fam (which is getting bigger!!), hope you'll have as much fun reading than I had writing this!

_I often wonder, looking at my mother, if she’s ever known true love, or happiness._   
_Her skin is smooth, having never been burdened by sorrow, or loss._   
_This is the lot of our people. We grow like peaches on trees, waiting to be consumed._   
_Waiting to be discarded._ _  
_ **_\- Elizabeth Brant, July 23rd of 1716_ **

 

 

There are two kinds of people, Betty’s father announces at the dinner table, teeth chewing on a piece of meat.

The kind that are useful to society, and the kind that feed off of them.  
  
He doesn’t elaborate. He never does. He likes doing that, spewing out half-truths and treating them as gospel while her mother holds his hand, giving it a gentle tug. Silently begging him to stop.   
  
Betty wonders if he knows that’s what she’s doing, or if he even cares at all.   
She also wonders which category they land in.   
  
If she were asked, she’d say the latter. The Brants, not only content to assume the governorship of an island that never belonged to them in the first place, had also been known to turn a blind eye on its dubious trading company.

The generous share of gold sent their way usually helped.

She closes her eyes, her finger tapping on the end of her fork. _Waiting._

It’s all she ever does.  
Waiting, a breath held so far within her even taking her corset off wouldn't make it budge.   
  
She can’t breathe here. She’s tried. She’s played her part, the golden girl of the family, the apple of her father’s eye, no doubt to be sold off to the first man of noble descent who’ll take her for a hefty price.   
  
She presses her finger down, hard enough for the fork to draw blood.   
The wait is unbearable, the heat suffocating. 

No amount of rubies, gifts, or fans will ever cushion that blow. That hopeless feeling of being trapped in a dollhouse, desperately staring out the window, waiting, waiting to be brought back to life.

There’s a whisper, a hand placed on her father’s shoulder, and just as she thought she wouldn’t be able to bear one more second of this, he gets up, mumbling about important affairs. Her mother excuses herself to her chambers soon enough, feigning a migraine.  
Betty keeps herself from sighing with relief -not that she could, not with the laces holding her ribcage so tight-, leaving her plate barely touched. She’s too eager to leave to be hungry still, and she has to remind herself not to run as soon as she exits the dining room.   
  
Too late, she thinks as the sound of her footsteps makes the wood wince, and she suppresses a smile. She takes off her gloves, gesturing for her maid to close the door to her bedroom as she enters it.   
  
As soon as she gets inside, a breath of relief goes through her. In her room, she can let the mask drop, just as she does the ribbons in her hair. She takes off her earrings — two white pearls she never deserved — and places them back into her jewelry box, fingers fumbling to take the laces off her corset.   
  
She looks around, contemplating her cushy jail cell. Walls covered with roses and windows opening on the bay might deceive one’s perception, but the reality of it stays the same: her door is locked every night, and only cracks open early in the morning.   
Serves her right for trying to escape through the main entrance at sixteen years of age.   
She’s twenty-two now, she knows better.   
  
If her clock is right, she’ll be able to get to the midtown tavern with a generous five minutes to spare.   
Which will give her plenty of time to steal, cheat, and mingle with its disputable crowd.

As the corset drops to the floor, she smiles, a low, wolfish grin.  
  
Tonight is the night, she tells herself.   
Tonight is the night she makes enough money to buy her way out of this place. 

 

* * *

 

 

_I open my eyes, tasting the salt on my tongue, the sun burning my skin._   
_It’s only dawn, but I can already feel it in my bones, the aching ghost of want._ _  
_There has to be more to it than this.

_There has to be._ _  
_ **_\- The Veil, Captain’s log, July 24th of 1716_ **

 

‘I don’t understand why we have to do this,’ he whines, and the Ghost glares at him from under his hat.

The room is dark, the smell… musty. Draperies and discarded chests populate the Captain’s quarters, giving it a strange, crowded feel. On the desk, a mountain of books and papers, none of them dusty enough to suggest the Captain is nothing but an avid reader, pile on to cover half of his face.  
  
‘There’s no need for you to concern yourself with why,’ the Ghost states.

Ned takes a step back, bumping his head on the beams of the ship. Hesitant to answer.  
  
He knew what he was getting into, he reasons with himself. Piracy is no tale of princesses and knights.   
  
He stares at his thumbs, stained with ink. He’s not a fighter, never has been, never will be. He’s a cartographer, and a pretty good one at that. Which is why he doesn’t really understand what _He_ wants with him.   
The Caribbeans have pretty much been mapped out, and contrary to popular belief, there’s no hidden island he knows of.   
  
‘I’m making you an offer you can’t possibly refuse, Mister Leeds,’ he adds, stroking his beard.   
  
Ned gulps.   
  
He already knows, deep down, that the Captain is right. There’s also part of him that’s flattered. The biggest, most elusive thief of the Seven Seas, needing him? That’s bound to make him rich. 

Or dead at the ripe age of twenty-four. 

He tries not to stare, though. Few people have met the Ghost and lived to tell the story.   
  
People say he’s not human, that he’s a malevolent spirit with an unquenchable thirst for blood. That his bed is made of gold and diamonds, and that’s why he never sleeps.

He never leaves his ship, never sets foot on land. Never beds any women, or men. Never hangs around his crew if he can avoid it.  
  
For all he’s seeing, Ned can’t tell fiction from reality yet. To be quite honest, he can’t even describe his face.   
  
The light isn’t that good in the Captain’s quarters, and billows of smoke seem to surround him at all times. All Ned makes out are blurry features, a long, dark beard, and glowing eyes under a wide-brimmed hat.   
  
‘Fair enough,’Ned concedes, and the Captain sighs with relief.   
  
He pulls a large red quill from his hat, and hands it to him.

‘As promised, here’s your contract. I trust that while you sail with us, you’ll abide by our code of conduct.’

‘Which is…?’

Another glare.

‘You are not to kill, maim, or harm any member of the crew, and in turn, I’ll make sure no one on this ship delivers the same treatment to you. You are not to steal, even during the events of a pillage, and keep the bounty to yourself. All gains must be shared. This is a democracy, Mister Leeds. Not the colonies.’  
  
He nods, signing the paper hastily.   
  
‘And you are not, under any circumstances, to discuss the terms of our arrangement to the rest of the crew, or anyone else for that matter.’   
  
Ned raises an eyebrow that the Captain seems to ignore, choosing instead to pour himself a cup of wine. He raises it in his direction, and gestures for him to grab it:   
  
‘This one’s just for you. The rule, I mean,’ he says as Ned grabs the cup, taking as small a sip as he can without choking. It’s red in color, and in taste. How the liquid manages to be both bitter and sour at once, he’ll never know, and he's not curious to find out.

The Captain takes back the tin cup, raising it to a toast, and laughs, a callous sound that chills Ned to the bone.

‘Hear, hear! Welcome aboard the Veil, Ned Leeds.’

 

* * *

 

 

You’d think days under a blue sky, the wind blowing in our hair, songs sung by the heart of men, would equate to freedom.   
In truthness, I often find myself dreaming of more. Wanting, needing.  
And I’m not sure any ship, bounty, or amount of Rhum will fill that void I feel consuming me from the inside.   
_There has to be more to it than this._ _  
_There has to be.

**_-Peter Benjamin Parker, July 25th of 1716_ **

 

‘Are you even listening to me, Pete?’  
  
He blinks, once, twice, mesmerized as usual with the infinite horizon standing before them. He’s seen it a hundred, a thousand times perhaps since embarking on the _Iron Man_ . The teal of the sea blending smoothly into the Caribbean sky, seagulls flying past, their cry muffled by the waves.   
  
_Six years, four months, and twenty days._

‘Sorry, Captain, you were saying?’

Stark rolls his eyes for good measure, but his unkempt beard can’t hide the smile spreading on his lips.  
  
‘I was saying that Happy would be more than pleased to take back his spot as quartermaster, so you might want to pay more attention.’   
  
Peter smiles, his eyes now focusing on the familiar face of a burly man who couldn’t have a more unfitting nickname.   
  
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’   
‘Remind me again, who picked you up from the clutches of the British Empire and nursed you back to the healthy-ish buccaneer you are now?’   
‘That would be you, I suppose.’   
‘That would be me,’ Stark nods, obviously pleased.   
‘So, you were saying…’   
‘I was saying, we need to get rid of _him_ and his crew.’   
‘Whomst?’ Peter asks despite already knowing the answer.   
  
Tony grunts.

‘The Ghost! It’s been too long since we’ve had any luck, and they keep stealing the biggest bounty right from under our noses. And I’m going to put an end to it.’  
  
Peter nods, letting out a noncommittal noise.   
  
‘You’ve looked at our books, you know better than I do. How long til’ we’re in the red?’ Stark suddenly asks.   
‘Four to six months.’   
‘That’s what I thought,’ he sighs, rubbing his eyes with two blackened thumbs.   
  
There’s a lull, because Peter knows he needs to say something, but can’t bring himself to. So instead, he bites his lower lip, running a hand through his hair, trying to keep his curls out of the way.   
  
‘We can’t just attack his ship, Tony. That’s against the code,’ he finally manages to say.   
  
Tony turns towards him, eyes squinting like a fox. Far in the distance, the contour of an island appears.

_Land-ho. Finally._   
  
‘Who said anything about attacking them?’

Peter frowns.

‘I thought…’

Tony winks.  
  
‘We obviously can’t do that. Brant would never forgive us, they’re the biggest earners of the company. What we can do, however, is find out what their plan is, and beat them to it. And you, my small, nifty friend, _will be the key to it_.’

As he politely nods, Peter feels his insides churn slowly, a familiar snake choking on his lungs.

One of these days, Stark is going to cost him his life, he’s sure of it. 

 

* * *

 

 

Tonight is the night I finally stop waiting. Tonight is the night I shed my skin, and become who I’m meant to be.  
As I step into the great unknown, no one holds my hand, and I don’t look back. _  
_I’m free.

**_-Elizabeth Brant, July 25th of 1716_ **

 

Betty stumbles, head first, into Midtown’s Brewery.   
She’s had a couple. Drinks, that is. 

And sure, she’s a small woman, with birdlike features and a thin frame, but she can hold her liquor. Usually. Bane’s played her under the table tonight, and as she makes sure all her gains are safely tucked in one of the pockets her dress conceals, she falls on a stool with a heavy sigh.  
  
‘Are  you alright, Miss?’ A voice raises from the crowd.   
  
She looks up.   
A small man, smaller than her, perhaps, and a bit larger than life, is staring at her with concern.

‘I’m fuh-ne,’ she slurs.  
‘I’m sorry?’ he repeats, his head bending over to hers.   
‘I said, I’m fine!’

She brushes him off like a fly on a mare, gesturing for Hector to bring her an ale. He nods, and she turns back to her pudgy opponent.  
  
‘This is no place for a lady,’ he starts.   
‘And yet you ’re here, Mister…’   
‘Leeds. Ned Leeds,’ he answers, taking a seat across the table.

He’s not from there, that much is obvious. His dark hair is sticking to his forehead in sweaty strands, covering kind eyes, and a kinder smile. 

_Cute_. 

Or he could be, if she was looking for a man to seduce. His hands are clutching to a book she recognizes easily. She’s seen it, tried to read it many times. It’s a staple of her father’s library, an in-depth almanac of the British fleet. Strange choice.

She points to the book, which he still hasn’t let go of.  
  
‘That’s a mighty boring read you have there, Ned Leeds. One might say it puts you right to sleep.’   
  
He grins, a knowing, secret smile that instantly piques her interest.

‘I’m only looking for possible flaws, things my Captain might overlook,’ he eludes, and it leaves her wanting more.   
‘Your Captain being?’   
‘I’m part of the Veil’s newest recruits.’   
  
Hector jams a pint in front of her as her jaw drops. A Pirate ship? And the biggest, most ruthless crew to be known in the seven seas to top it all?! She sits a bit straighter, clearing her thoughts.   
  
‘Funny, you don’t strike me as a thief.’   
‘I’m not,’ he answers, almost offended.   
‘What are you, then?’ She asks, her nails hitting the table in a staccato.   
‘I’m a...researcher of sorts.’

He’s not telling her the whole truth, that she’s sure of. She hums, her lips barely touching the tip of her cup as she gulps down the beer. 

It’s lukewarm, like everything for sale in this tavern. Around them, people with fewer teeth than they have scars laugh, fight, and drink their gains into oblivion. Not her, though. Not tonight. She’s already won enough gold, playing cards against these fools, to know none of them will allow her to rip them off.

She squints, gauging this Ned Leeds and how green he looks. He’s a lot cleaner than the rest of the men in here, and were it not for the distinct scent of sweat and beer oozing from every single person in the establishment, she’d swear she could smell money on him. Money, and secrets. As she robs him of the former, she might find out about the latter.  
  
‘How good are you with cards, Mister Leeds?’ she purrs, pushing the pot of ale towards him. He takes a tentative sip, blinking from the strength of the beverage, and his cheeks flush almost instantly. 

Oh, this is too easy.  
  
‘Oh, I wouldn’t dare playing against you,’ he mutters, and she frowns.   
‘You don’t even know me!’ She scoffs.   
‘I suppose your reputation precedes you then, Ms. Brant.’   
  
So he _does_ know her. She laughs, trying to mask her surprise.

‘And what about it?’ She adds.

Ned Leeds bends a little closer then, close enough for her to feel the tickle of his breath on her face.

‘I know you’re a liar, a thief, and that you’ve cheated every single man in this room,’ he whispers as a shiver runs through her spine.

She pauses.  
  
‘Some researcher, huh?’   
‘Heh, I dabble,’ he answers, sitting back, the hint of a smug smile on his face and _Oh, she likes him_. 

She likes him very much, indeed.

 

* * *

 

 

_Tonight is the night I finally stop wanting. Tonight is the night I find it, and tonight is also the night I meet_ her _, and feel freer than I’ve been in months. There’s no treasure too big, they say._ _  
_ _Wait until they see this one._

**_-Edward Leeds, July 25th of 1716_ **

 

‘Tell me again how that’s a good idea?’ Peter whispers, brows furiously knitted together.  
‘It’s the perfect moment, Pete. You get in as soon as the crew’s out to party, find the Ghost’s log, and come back to us with any relevant information.’

Peter sighs. He could point out all the flaws in that plan, but they wouldn’t have enough hours in the night, and neither Happy nor Stark would listen to him anyway. So here he goes, rapier strapped to his back, dark clothes, a rope around his arms.  
  
He’s always been good at climbing.   
  
Back home, he’d started with trees. He could have worked in the timber market, followed his uncle’s footsteps. A dangerous fall later and a crippling debt looming upon them had successfully managed to crush his dreams.   
Ben hadn’t survived the fall, and it had been enough grief for May to put a ban on the business. He was too smart, she’d said, too young to crack his skull open like an egg and leave this earth.

So he’d studied, day and night, and quickly became one of the youngest recruits on the navy.

May hadn’t been too happy about it either: instead of following on his uncle footsteps, he had settled for his father’s.

_One day,_ she’d said, tears in her eyes and hands cupping his face, _you’ll be the death of me._

He closes his eyes, silently thanking the Lord she can’t see him now.

‘I heard he never gets off the ship,’ he tries again, and Stark gives him a look.  
‘That’s just a legend,’ Happy says, but his eyes betray him.   
‘Just be quick, kid. You get in, get the log, get out.’

This is going to be the death of him. He knows it, he just _knows_ . Maybe he should write to May.   
Start telling her the truth, for once. How he’d start such a letter, however…

_‘Dear May, I hope the orchard is ripe with apples this year. I’m terribly sorry, it would appear I have omitted a crucial detail about the nature of my adventures at sea. This may have slipped my mind, but I’m actually not a soldier in the British navy anymore. I’m more or less a privateer, now. More than less.’_

He shakes his head, pushing the cap on his head a bit lower, and with an assured hand, covers his entire face with soot.

‘This is the last time I’m doing this,’ he grumbles.  
‘Oh, you _love_ it,’ Stark answers with a slap on his back.   
  
Peter gives him a somber look before lowering himself in the skiff.   
Around him, the night is dark, and full of favors, if the sounds coming from the island are anything to trust. It’s a pity he’s set to sail in the opposite direction.

‘You don’t pay me nearly enough for this,’ he groans.

 

* * *

 

_I have found it. The cartographer confirmed it this morning._   
_It’s real._ _  
_The First Avenger is real.

**_\- The Veil, Captain’s log, July 26th of 1716_ **   
  



	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't have done this without my hype fam and specifically [Birdie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisbirdie), thanks for reading over and helping me make sense of things!

_I look out the window, and I look past the town, the palm trees; the smoke and the fire._   
_I look past our house, past my family, and the invisible chains_ _  
_that bind us together in this miserable affair.

 _I look to the future. To the sea, wishing its waves could take me away._ _  
_ _One day, I know they will._

**_\- Elizabeth Brant, July 24th of 1716_ **

 

‘Nooooo!!’ Betty groans, watching the dart land a good three inches away from the center of the board.  
  
It’s her third time losing, and she could only afford to lose once.   
  
‘Well then, Miss Brant,’ Ned replies, making a mockery of a curtsy, ‘I believe you owe me.’   
  
She sighs, a defeated smile on her face. _This is not good_ , she muses as she rummages through her pockets. _Not good at all._ She was supposed to be the one making a fool out of him. She was supposed to buy her ticket out of this town, and never look back.   
Instead, she’d spent the evening playing darts with him, giggling like a goose as he pocketed all her earnings.   
  
She waves a hand in defeat.   
  
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you there, Mr. Leeds.’   
‘Please, call me Ned,’ he laughs, and she wants to laugh too. 

He’s sporting one of those infectious grins, one that turns his entire face into the sun, and it’s hard to resist.  
  
She’s been wrong about many things tonight.

She’d thought him weak, easy to trick. A man who couldn’t hold his liquor.  
Instead, she’d found him to be a charming, well-educated man, and she had lowered her guard.

‘Ned, I cannot possibly let you rob me more than you already have.’  
‘Let me make it even then. How about a game of cards, huh?’ 

She laughs.

‘I will not have your pity, Sir.’  
‘I’ll trade you for something far more valuable than money,’ he whispers, eyebrows wiggling, and something, deep inside of her, warns her. 

Some games are too dangerous to play.

She squints.

‘And what would that be?’  
‘ _Information_.’

 _Ah_ , she sighs as she sits down, realization dawning on her face. _That’s what he’d been after_ .   
Not her money, nor her looks. She should have known better. 

She closes her eyes.

In a second, he’ll break that truce and stop pretending he doesn’t care who she is.  
In a second, he’ll say something that will squash her belief that she’s anything but the governor’s daughter. Part of her is relieved, the other inexplicably disappointed.   
  
‘What do you want to know?’ she replies dryly.

He sits next to her, bending his head so she can hear him over the rowdy crowd.

‘What I want,’ he breathes, carefully rolling a silver coin between his fingers, ‘is to know if you’re already betrothed.’  
  
Betty chokes.

‘I beg your pardon?!’  
‘I would hate for you to go back to your husband in such a disheveled state, as I’m not entirely blameless in that ordeal.’

She stares, making sure the blush she sees on his cheeks is not the result of the five empty drinks between them.  
  
‘I’m not married, nor betrothed to anyone,’ she answers hesitantly, suddenly looking down to her fingers. They chip at the varnish of the table.

‘Ah, I see,’ he answers, his lips stretching into a thin smile.

It’s impossible to know if he’s pleased or not.  
  
‘Will you let me walk you back home then, Miss Brant?’   
‘It’s Betty.’   
‘What?’   
‘You can call me Betty.’

His mouth opens, but something seems to prevent him from speaking his mind. She adds:

‘And I’d be delighted to, Ned.’  


* * *

 

  
_Nassau is, as ever, as grimy as thieves make it to be._   
_I’m one of them, and I’ll remain one of them until England puts a noose around my neck._   
_Which, by all accounts, could happen anytime soon._   
_Still, when I look at this town, fueled by the desire to be more, to be free, I can’t help but feel hopeful._ _  
_There is strength in numbers, and we’re a sea of thieves.

_And that ocean could sink a whole fleet._

**_\- Peter Benjamin Parker, July 27th of 1716_ **

 

 

Peter stops rowing. Above him, _The_ _Veil_ stands, its black sails floating gently into the midnight air, its wood darkened by years of battles.  
It’s a warship, heavy and well armored, undefeated in the Bahamas.

Some say its Captain is ruthless, a coward who won’t show you his face as he takes you across the Styx.   
Some say its Captain doesn’t exist. That the ship is powered by dark magic and spite alone, dedicated to be a foil to Spanish and British galleons alike.   
  
He jumps into the water, careful to swim undersea, trying to drown his thoughts with every lap. His job is not to find out which of those tales is fiction.

No, what he needs to do is board the ship discreetly, lay low for a while, and retrieve the journal.   
No more, no less.   
Luckily, he's good at this.   
  
As he climbs the sternpost, he takes a deep breath, keeping himself from looking down, or back.   
  
_Into the belly of the beast._

 

* * *

 

 _I feel them._   
_The laces of my corset, tightening, cutting into my flesh._   
_The trap, closing in on me._   
_  
_There isn’t much time left.

 **_\- Elizabeth Brant, July 27th of 1716_ **   


 

‘I have some news,’ her father announces suddenly, setting his fork aside.

Betty frowns.   
Nothing’s ever seemed important enough to put a stop to her father’s appetite before.   
  
‘I have found the perfect match for you, my darling.’   
  
She doesn’t register it the first time he says it. Her father barely acknowledges her presence these days. She’s been told by her mother that this comes with becoming a woman. The loss of value. There’s no pretending, no hiding from the fact that she’s not the heir he so dearly would have wanted.

He clears his throat.

‘Elizabeth?’  
  
_It’s Betty. You can call me Betty._

‘Pardon me, Father, I was lost in my own thoughts.’

He nods.

‘As you were. So, as I was saying, I’ve been approached by the Thompson family.’  
  
He can’t quite possibly mean…

‘Eugene has been yearning to see you again. He has apparently been quite smitten with you since our ball last year.’  
  
_No._ _  
_ _No, No, No, No, No._

 _This isn’t happening._ _  
_ _This can’t be happening._

Her heart sinks.   
Her mother holds her hand, maybe to help her breathe, maybe to congratulate her.   
She feels sick to her stomach.   
  
‘You want me... to marry... a _British sympathizer_ ? A merchant’s son?’   
  
This might just work. She knows how much her father hates new blood.   
  
‘It would legitimize a lot of our trade, Elizabeth. Give us a good front,’ he says tiredly, and she realizes in horror he’s already made a decision.   
  
It’s probably been months.

She feels the tears grow in her eyes.  
She knows how they see her, men like Eugene, or her father.

A piece of cattle. A doll, ready to be set aside and only played with when they’re bored.

She won’t cry. She won’t give him the satisfaction. He’d just talk circles around her, tell her again that this was always going to be the expected outcome.  
  
She nods quietly.

‘I’ll consider it.’  
‘I’ve  already accepted on your behalf.’   
‘Charles!’ her mother interjects, and for the first time, she wonders if she could have an ally inside her house.   
‘What difference does it make? You know the rules, Eleanor. This is how our lot goes about it.’   
  
She can’t hear her mother’s response. Her ears are ringing.

‘I need to lie down.’

She gets up, or at least, she thinks she does. The next minute or so is blurry. Her stomach is playing tricks on her, and by the time she regains full control over her body, it’s nighttime. 

The maid, in an act of pity, or maybe kindness, leaves the windows open. Even from her bed, Betty can see it: the clamor of the town, the pirates' ships docked by.

She doesn’t have enough money to leave. Not even after Ned, taking advantage of her tipsiness, had placed as much gold as he could back in her purse.  
  
She breathes out. There’s no way out of here.   
  
_‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ Ned whispers, and her heart jumps in her chest._   
_‘So soon? What about my revenge on your ill-gotten gains?’_   
  
_He raises a hand, and for a second she thinks he’s going to cup her cheek. She wants him to._   
  
_‘I think you’ll find the way I won my gains to be perfectly honorable, Miss.’_ _  
_‘I told you to call me Betty.’

_He blushes, looking down to his feet._

_‘That’s for later.’_ _  
_ _‘Later?’_

_He looks at her, his eyes too soft, too brown for her to be able to maintain eye contact any longer._

_‘When I come back.’_

She gets up. There has to be a way to escape, and she’ll find it, even if it’s the last thing she does.

 

* * *

 

 _We’ve departed a day earlier than I thought._   
_I can tell from the looks in my men’s faces that they’re as anxious as I am to find it._   
_The prize, the glory of it all._   
_I’ll make their wildest dreams come true._   
_I’ll be the one to find it._ _  
_And then, finally, I will rest.

 **_\- The Veil, Captain’s log, July 28th of 1716_ **

 

 

The waves crash against the cabin in a nerve-wracking screech.   
There’s nothing like being at sea, knowing there’s nothing beneath them, only the water and whatever monster is hiding in Davy Jones’ Locker.

The Ghost sighs, pouring a glass of the least acrid wine the crew could find with such a short stop.  
They can’t really be blamed for the haste in which they packed, not when they’ve all been looking for it for ages.

 _The First Avenger_ .   
The largest treasure galleon London has ever carried, lost at sea with all its bounty, nearly thirty years ago.   
  
If their information is correct, they’ll get to the location within weeks.   
After that, they’ll all go their separate ways.   
  
This was never meant to be the life. This was only ever supposed to be a step on a ladder, with a prize far greater than just piles and piles of jewels.

Freedom, far from wars and servitude, far from pain, and loss.  
  
It’s so close even the wine can’t mask the taste of it.

 

* * *

 

 

 _We’re getting close, I can feel it._   
_Nassau was the final stop before embarking on this journey, which will hopefully be the last._   
_Still, when I think of this town, a town that has often been described to me as a nook full of the most despicable men you could find in the Seven Seas, I find myself inexplicably drawn back to it._   
  
_For there is far greater a treasure on this island,_   
_and I can’t help but long for it with all my heart._ _  
_ **_\- Edward Leeds, July 29th of 1716_ **

 

He can’t sleep. There’s too much noise, people snoring, tides crashing. Wood cracking. They’ve been at sea for all of two days, and he’s already tired of it.   
He turns over in his bunk only to be met with the less than friendly face of his bunkmate, Abraham.

‘We’ve heard a noise, down in the gun decks. Might be mice,’ he starts, and Ned frowns, confused.  
‘And you’re telling me, because…?’   
  
Abraham rolls his eyes.   
‘Last man to get on the ship, first on the line. It’s in the code.’   
‘Isn’t the code more like guidelines, anyway?’ Ned tries, and Abe gives him a look.   
  
Scratch that. He gives him The Look. The one that doesn’t allow space for mutiny of any sort.   
  
‘What happens if they’ve damaged the powder barrels and I blow this whole ship up by mistake, tipping this oil lamp over?’ he adds, shaking his lamp for effect.

‘Don’t be clumsy, then,’ Abraham replies, his hand slapping the back of Ned’s neck.  
  
Ned swallows, hard, hands clutching to the handle of his lamp.

‘Very well then, very well.’

It’s darker than anticipated down there, and he finds himself swatting away memories of ghosts, spirits chasing him in his dreams as a child. He’s never seen himself as a coward, just a man with enough wit to outweigh his general bad luck.

‘Mice, if you’re there, you better show yourself!’ he whispers, hoping to scare them away.

There’s a ruffle, near the skiffs, and he silently crosses over his heart. Please, let him die _after_ he’s found _the First Avenger_.

‘I’m coming in!’ he says a little louder.

He steps in, cautiously walking closer to the sailboat, praying for the mice not to have feasted on the barrels of extremely flammable materials around them yet.

‘Ned?!’ a legitimate ghost emerges out of the skiff, and his legs threaten to give out.

He screams, and the pale apparition presses a hand against his mouth.

 _Wait._ _  
_He frowns.

‘Mhifh Brvanvdh?!’

She dusts herself off, covered in what appears to be chalk, or some sort of dust.

‘I’m so, so sorry about this,’ she starts, and he falls to the ground.  
  
When he wakes up, he’s still in the depths of the ship, and she’s sitting beside him.   
  
‘Did you just hit me over the head?!’

She scoffs.

‘Of course not! You passed out.’  
‘Oh.’   
‘Yeah.’   
‘Wait, what are _you_ doing here?!’

‘Can’t a girl escape an arranged marriage in an adventurous fashion?’ she shrugs, and he almost scoffs.

Almost.  
  
This is _bad_ . A woman on the ship? A woman he _knows_ ? This is going to cost him greatly. Has she doomed them all already?   
Is that just a  saying?   
He can’t speak.   
He can’t breathe.   
  
‘Hey hey hey hey, Ned, what’s happening? You’re going through all the colors of nature, here!’

She holds his face up between her hands. They’re ice cold, and he’s thankful for it.

‘We can’t -a woman!- have. We can’thaveawomanonboard,’ he breathes out, and she frowns, letting go of him.  
‘Really? That’s what you’re going with? Some age-old superstition? I have to say, I’m not impressed…’

He shakes his head.

‘It’s not that, it’s just...We’re going to be sailing for weeks. How are you even supposed to survive? What if next time, someone else comes down and they find you here?’ he rambles, his brows furrowing. ‘I have to go, I have to fix this somehow, I have to tell the Captain…’

She grabs his hand, silently pleading, and he feels his stomach churn. Of all the women who could have hidden on this ship, it had to be her.

‘Please, Ned. Don’t.’  
‘I just… _What on earth were you thinking_ ?’ he panics.   
  
A world of hurt flashes in her eyes, and he hates himself for it.   
  
‘I wasn’t. I had to escape.’   
  
And _that_ is where his heart breaks.

He gets up, trying to quiet down the thumping in his ribcage. 

He’s always been praised for his wits, for his fast thinking, and for crafting solutions when it appears there are none.  
He’ll think of something, he has to.   
He has to be brave. For once. For her.

‘I’m going to fix this. Trust me?’ he says softly, taking both her hands in his in a show of what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

She smiles back, albeit hesitantly.

‘Trust a _thief_?’

He grabs the lamp, giving her one last look before climbing back up.

‘I believe that’s more you than me.’

_He has to be brave._

* * *

 

 _I try to look forward, instead of in, for I’m scared to see what I know to be true:_ _  
_ _That deep down, I’m missing something._

 _A part of me, a part bigger than me._   
_I’m looking, letting the waves take me further and further away from home,_ _  
_Hoping one day they’ll take me where I belong.

**_\- Peter Benjamin Parker, July 24th of 1716_ **

 

  
This whole room is a mess.   
  
He can’t take one step without putting his foot on a document, a shirt, or a weapon.   
As far as Captain’s quarters go, this one is akin to a Turkish bazaar.   
  
When he finally gets to the desk, he sighs with relief.   
So far he’d been able to walk around unnoticed, waiting for the right moment to get into the cabin, but something in the back of his mind warned him he’d have to be quick.   
  
He pushes a pile of dusty books around, careful not to spill the jar of ink placed on the right side of the table, and whistles. 

There it is. The log.  
He opens it to find a surprisingly elegant writing, as well as several maps and coordinates. This is going to take them hours to decipher. Flipping quickly to the last page, he holds out a breath.   
  
Hold on.   
_The first Avenger?_ _  
_ _He’d found_ the first Avenger _?!_

This was major. This could change everything. Would change everything.  
He grabs the journal, his brain going a mile a minute, shoving it in his satchel.   
_  
_‘I suppose you’re not here to bring me dinner,’ a voice says, and he turns back, eyes as wide as a deer.

A long-bearded man, his tricorn set askew, glares back at him.  
  
‘You really don’t want to try the mutton stew, it’ll stay with you longer than you wish it did,’ is all he finds to say before the Ghost lunges at him with a feral growl.   
  
Peter gasps, grabbing for his belt while assessing the situation.

Fact: the Ghost is tall, taller than him.  
Fact: he’s also a lot leaner, although the layers of cloth and various undercoats might mess with his perception.   
Fact: he seems prone to anger, and there’s no doubt he’s angered.   
  
‘Listen,’ he tries to speak as the man slices through the air, his hat covering most of what Peter can only assume to be the most terrifying face he’s ever seen, ‘We could at least _try_ to talk this out!’

‘The time for talking was before I found you snooping in my quarters, thief!’  
  
The Ghost’s sword hits him, cutting into his cheek when Peter doesn’t dive fast enough.   
Blood drips on the floorboards, and Peter groans.   
  
_Fine_ , he’ll fight back.   
  
He takes out his own sword, using it as a shield, deflecting attack after attack, and pushes him away, trying to corner him. 

The Captain isn’t foolish enough to let himself be trapped.  
He’s foolish enough not to notice the chair in his way.

Peter kicks him then, his foot pushing into his ribcage with a satisfying crack.  
There’s a muffled scream, and the Ghost falls, his hat falling with him.   
  
Peter takes slow, measured breaths, his rapier shaking because his hand is.   
  
He’s never killed anyone.   
He’s pretty sure he’s not going to start today.

He bends down, holding out a hand for his opponent.  
‘Listen, we can probably come to an arrangement, if-’

He stops dead in his tracks.  
  
No one’s ever seen the Ghost.   
And up until today, he’d never understood why.   
  
His breath hitches.

In front of him lies a tall —lanky, perhaps— _woman_ . Her hair is a cuckoo’s nest, tangled strands masking most of what he can make out to be a soft, rounded face. Her brown eyes are as dark as the pits of hell, and she spits -spits! At him:   
  
‘Over my dead body, you rat!’   
  
In an impressive show of strength, she gets up, one hand folded over her ribcage, the other fumbling for her belt.   
  
A woman. The most feared pirate of the Seven Seas is a woman. This changes things. Namely, if he didn’t feel comfortable killing her two seconds ago, he definitely does not feel comfortable killing her now.

‘Wait,’ he starts before jumping out of the way to avoid a blow.

He’d be impressed if he wasn’t so confused.

Even with her ribs bruised, even with a painful breath, she manages to move around with ease, holding out her sword with a steel grip. Her blows are quick, precise, and — he bends backward with a little side-step — meant to be deadly.

‘Who sent you, thief?’ she snarls through gritted teeth.

‘I’d really rather not say,’ he breathes, and he spins around, using all of his body strength —which is admittedly not that much— to push her sword away with his. Their faces almost meet, his eyes the ones of a man determined to get out of this alive, hers full of fire and anger.

There’s something, a recognition of sorts, flickering through them and she whispers:

‘You’re Stark’s lapdog, aren’t you?’

It’s enough of a distraction for him to push her away again, and all while maintaining his balance, answer almost smugly:

‘I’d really prefer it if you called me Peter.’

She growls, her rapier slicing the air as he jumps up, down, to the side. Anything to put some distance between him and certain death. She’s getting tired, her breath ragged and her movements more erratic by the minute. 

‘I think I’ll stick with Dog, if you don’t mind!’

_Szzing!_

Another attack, another parry.

‘That’s really too bad,’ — _sswish! Szzing!_ — ‘I was starting to warm up to you, Captain!’   
‘Why then, come closer, and we’ll  — _szzing-_ —exchange — _swoosh_ —more — _szzing-_ —niceties!’

He dodges her once more, blocking her blade with her own log, which she recognizes instantly.

‘I’m terribly sorry, but I think I’ll have to abstain, ’ he smiles as her eyes grow tenfold, ‘and take this home instead!’

He jumps up, seizing the beam above him to propel himself away from her fury, but she grabs him by the foot and he drops down, tumbling on top of her. 

She’s managed to make him lose his footing, which startles him and he yelps, his rapier rolling away. She kicks it out of reach, grabbing his wrists as she pins him down.   
  
Her hair falls in a curtain around them, obstructing the light.

_So this is how he dies, huh._

He looks into the eyes of his soon-to-be murderer, two brows knitted together over an elegant face, lips curled in anger. She’s quite striking, he supposes.

He remembers to breathe, and she grabs a knife out of her belt, pressing it against his carotid. 

‘Will you just— die — already!’

He fights her tooth and nail, struggling, their noses almost touching, before finally kicking her in the stomach.   
She cries out in pain, and he grimaces, wracked with guilt.   
With a groan, he pushes her away, rolling on top of her to slam her wrist on the ground until the knife drops with a satisfying _clang_ .   
  
‘I really don’t want to harm you,’ he hears himself say.   
‘That’s too bad,’ she whispers, ‘because I do.’

She headbutts him, and he recoils in shock, stumbling to his feet.

‘Now!’ she yells, and he frowns.  
  
The last thing he remembers after that is a loud bang on the back of his head, and everything going dark around him.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, you can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/q_constellation) and [tumblr](https://aquietconstellation.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> Right! Hope this was a good and exciting read! As usual, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, you can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/q_constellation) and [tumblr](https://aquietconstellation.tumblr.com)!


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